


Just a Few of Those Faces and Places

by UnstableIntention (BeneficialAddiction)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, These Faces and These Places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/UnstableIntention
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outtakes from 'These Faces and These Places'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Encounters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [These Faces and These Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260259) by [UnstableIntention (BeneficialAddiction)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/UnstableIntention). 



Stiles knew he was a wolf, from the first moment he laid eyes on him.

It wasn’t overt, nothing obvious, nothing that any normal person would see.

But then again Stiles wasn’t, not anymore.

Not after spending years fighting his way up out of the hell pits of the supernatural, not after _dying_. Sacrificing himself to that damned stump of a blood-hungry Nemeton out in the center of the woods. Sacrificing himself to save his father, his friends, his town.

It was almost funny to him now, that he would give up so much and then leave it all behind, like those reasons were nothing, didn’t matter at all.

Funnier still, that he could run so far and still not get away.

He didn’t know what it was at first. Didn’t know if he was just more attuned to it or if there actually were subtle signs he was picking up on because he knew what to look for. In the end he thought it might be both, but more importantly, in the end it didn’t matter. He knew, and he could see it, in the way that the man carried himself and in the way that he sometimes scented the air.

Worse, so much worse, in the way that the desperate, yearning thing inside him pulled him towards his presence, demanded that he go to him, learn him, _know_ him. His heart, his warmth, the spark that Deaton had named and then never spoken of again tugged him towards the werewolf, wanted, and that alone was enough to make his brain hit the panic button.

_Run_.

Get the hell outta Dodge because you’re about to get hurt again.

And he knew down to his very soul that he couldn’t take another hit like the one that had sent him running from Beacon Hills.

Those wounds were still open and hot and bloody, infecting all the parts of him that had once made him capable of really being happy. He hadn’t understood the changes in him, the growing sense of co-dependence, near clinginess that had never before been a part of his make-up. He felt almost like he’d been losing himself his senior year, his ties to the pack and its wolves becoming so knotted and tangled that he couldn’t even follow them anymore, and then in one fell swoop every one of those strings had been cut.

He’d barely survived that; gone out to the Preserve and gotten more blitzed than he’d ever been, three-quarters of the way to alcohol poisoning before he stuck his fingers down his throat and rid his body of the whiskey he’d guzzled, gathered up the last shreds of dignity that he could summon and stumbled home. To this day he didn’t know how he’d managed to sober up enough to tell his dad the whole sordid tale, to come up with a plan and get himself on a plane before any of the pack could come sniffing around with an excuse or a pathetic platitude.

He was just glad he had.

Getting out, getting away, was maybe the best thing that he could’ve done in that moment.

The only way he could have saved himself.

The plane ride itself hadn’t been quite enough of course. Staying with relatives for maybe two weeks, he’d begun to drive himself mad, his mind turning things over and over again until he was physically sick. He’d gotten away from Beacon Hills, but he’d still needed to get away from himself, and that was exactly what he did. Already accepted into his mother’s alma mater, he got permission to delay his admission for a year, to spend that time compiling research and data for the dissertation he already had planned. He’d worked long and hard to fix that, by warrant of extensive proposals and writing samples, labeled as a year of study abroad that quickly turned to two, and then faded away all together.

Call it getting lost after a year backpacking across Europe if you wanted to, but he was working, dammit, and working hard, to do more than just forget all the things he’d left behind.

Avoiding the tourist traps, he found the smallest villages and the most obscure tours, collecting as many tales of the supernatural as he could; myths, legends, local lore, he documented it all. Incredible, the things he learned, the stories he was told. It took him cross the country to the most beautiful of places, and that was of course how he’d ended up here, on the first leg of trek that already had him and three others deep in a Romanian mountain range. Their guide had taken them on a wide swing to meet up with another tour group coming in from the other side, their own leader injured with a badly sprained ankle, and there he was, packing happily along with the others like his appearance wasn’t turning Stiles’ whole world on its ear.

He was huge - Stiles remembered that being his first impression after _WEREWOLF_ flashed through his mind in hot neon letters. Taller than him by a good head and a half, broad, heavy shoulders, and a thick neck, he was built more like a bull than anything else. That or a brick wall. His next impression, which he would deny till his dying day, was that the guy was rather beautiful. Not handsome, not hot, not even gorgeous.

Beautiful.

And yes, part of it was the strangle-hold of _gimme_ that had bubbled up in his chest at the sight of him, the recognition of the pelt beneath his skin and the woods behind his eyes, but the other part of it was the eyes themselves, shining not with a werewolf’s supernatural glow but rather a warmth of character and cheerfulness of spirit that Stiles didn’t even know it was possible for a wolf to possess. There was just something about the gentleness of him where there was so much strength in the lines of his body, the angle of his jaw and the slope of his shoulders, that it had been almost painful for Stiles to not just cave to his very first instinct and launch himself at the man, to beg a perfect stranger for a good-ole-fashioned cuddle.

He disgusted himself sometimes.

Part of this, a huge part of it, had been about finding himself again, finding the independence and resourcefulness he’d felt like he’d lost. He was here to _prove_ that he could do it, could be his own rock. That he wasn’t a liability that a wolf had to worry about or care for. And still he felt that thing in his chest, a hook in his belly tugging at him, incessant and demanding, and it only made him that much more determined to stay away from the guy.

The werewolf didn’t get the memo.

Stiles was sitting on a boulder at the edge of the group’s little campground when the wolf first approached him, carving on a piece of wood with the pocket knife his father had pressed into his hand before he’d left. It had been two days since they’d picked up the other hikers and he’d been doing his best to avoid the big blonde, despite the smiles the man cast in his direction every time Stiles looked his way, friendly overtures that he was determined to ignore. Focused on the small block of pine in his hands, irritated that the shape beginning to emerge from it looked depressingly like a wolf instead of the pack llama it was meant to be, he started so badly at the appearance of a pair of worn black hiking boots in front of him that he jumped, the knife slipping and nicking his knuckles.

Hissing at the shallow bolt of pain, he brought his hand to his mouth, sucking away the blood and soothing the cut he’d caused as he glared up at the man towering above him.

“What?” he snarled around his injured knuckles, but the wolf was looking down on him with enough concern that it sent an immediate swoop of guilt through his belly.

“You all right?” he asked, his gaze caught on Stiles’ mouth until he quickly dropped his hand. “Didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t,” he interrupted, his tone still gruff and uninviting. “It’s fine.”

His heartbeat must’ve stayed steady, or otherwise the guy was just willing to let the lie go, because he was shaking his head in a way that conveyed a shrug. He had thick, sunny-blonde hair and it tousled gently as he moved and Stiles was struck with the sudden desire to bury his fingers in it and hold on forever, so instead he just tightened them around the whittling in his hand.

“ ‘M Pheelan O’Rourke,” the wolf said, and then he was reaching out a hand and just waiting, letting it hang in front of Stiles’ face like a challenge.

And to hell with backing down from that - he wasn’t going to be intimidated by any alpha-beta-dick.

Ok, so maybe he was being defensive and maybe that was making _him_ the dick. There were definitely a few quotes about racisms and profiling tripping through his brain just then, even if it was really specieism...

Somewhat chastened by his own attitude but still unwilling to encourage any kind of a relationship, Stiles accepted the handshake, warm and firm and confidant but not overbearing. The wolf was looking at him expectantly with such an open face that he was momentarily taken aback, and then he realized that he was waiting for his own introduction. Reluctant as he was to give his name, everyone in his group already had it so a lie would just make him look like a total jackass.

“Stiles.”

**XXX**

He should have known it wouldn’t end there.

The climb they were on was set to last at least two weeks, and there was no way Stiles could avoid the man in a group of nine, isolated from the entirety of the civilized world. The guy was happy-go-lucky like Stiles had never seen, and it seemed like every time he turned around the werewolf was there with a grin or a laugh, loud and warm and booming in the clean mountain air. There was something more to it than that, he knew, knew that _Pheelan_ was aware that Stiles knew what he was, and that he knew that Stiles was something in turn.

But since Stiles didn’t exactly know what he was then what the other man knew had to be just as much a guess in its own right.

And that… that was a lot of _knows_ and _knews_ and it kind of made Stiles’ head hurt.

But the wolf didn’t seem surprised that Stiles had recognized his… _species_ , and so he had to assume that Stiles was something too.

But he never asked, and that might’ve been what irritated Stiles the most.

He was just so damned _nice_ , without wanting anything out of it, and maybe that said more about Stiles than it did about him, but dammit he couldn’t help it. Every time he turned around the guy was there, lending a hand with something, spouting off some colorful bit of small talk, bumping Stiles’ shoulder chummily like they were friends sharing a good joke, and it all grated on him like sand on sensitive skin. He wanted it, wanted it all badly, and yet he didn’t want any of it at all, and spending half of his time pushing the guy away while the thing in his chest slobbered after him like a hound after a bone was excruciatingly exhausting.

Eight days, he endured eight full days of that before he couldn’t take it anymore. Before something had to give and he broke.

“Why are you all over me?” he snarled, showing his teeth when the wolf had followed him into the edges of the trees when he’d volunteered to collect tinder for the night’s bonfire.

“I don't really know,” he replied easily with a sunny grin, his head cocked to one side as he watched Stiles collect sticks and bits of dry grass, making no effort to do more than watch. Stiles even caught his gaze wandering over his backside when he bent to grab a chunk of tree bark. “You're hot.”

Jerking upright, Stiles spun around so hard that he almost dropped his armful of fire-making materials.

“Wait… what?!” he yipped in disbelief.

He certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

It was the first time in his life that anyone had flat-out expressed a blatant interest in him, and this guy was gorgeous.

Yeah, yeah, so he’d noticed, so what?

“You’re hot,” the wolf repeated, and this time the look on his face somehow softened the sentiment so that it wasn’t just a crass appreciation of nothing more than his physical looks. “You’re smart. You've got wicked humor,” he continued. “There's just… something about you. Can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there.”

Stiles frowned, turned away to pick up one last stick.

“I'm nothing special,” he muttered bitterly, feeling the reality of those words all the way down to his core. He was a lot of things, sure, but he just…

He wasn’t special.

“You’re definitely something,” the wolf murmured behind him, and when Stiles turned back his eyes were glowing a warm, burnished gold, the safest color he could have hoped for them to be. “I wouldn’t be surprised if special was exactly what you are.”

This time Stiles scowled, turned harshly away and began marching back towards camp.

“Forget it dude,” he bit out over his shoulder, the hair on the back of his neck standing up and everything in him screaming go back. “Just stay away from me.”


	2. Times They be a Changin'

He didn’t know how it happened.

He’d told werewolf to stay away, told him to leave him alone, but of course there was only so much distance he could put between them while they were on the same hike. In Stiles’ mind there wasn’t enough room for the both of them on the same _mountain_ , but short of doing the guy serious damage there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Really the most he could get away with was making sure that he was at the front of the line and the wolf was at the back once they got onto the trails, and even that was harder than was really convenient.

And as much as he fought it, as hard as he tried to lock that part of himself away, the thing in him still _wanted_. Wanted the contact, the interaction, the _nearness_ of the wolf. At first he held firm, pushed him away whenever he got close even though it hurt him, physically hurt him to do it. He shut his brain down hard whenever he found himself wondering about the blonde, whenever he was struck by the strangeness of how happy he was here alone, without a pack. What did it matter to Stiles how he did it, _why_ he could do it? The only thing that mattered was the space between them.

Still as the days went by, it got harder and harder, and he almost didn’t even notice as things began to change. Little things, small things, and very, very slowly.

Answering a question without anger twinging in the pit of his belly.

Pausing to turn when the guy said his name without a scowl on his face.

Casually offering up small, unimportant parts of himself without agonizing over it first.

The guy was just so damned _nice_ , it was almost impossible not to fall into an easy friendship with him.

So as it was, Stiles barely noticed as the anger faded away, as he allowed his personal bubble to shrink, letting the wolf in closer and closer every day. Closer, until the hesitancy and reluctance almost didn’t even exist anymore and he and Pheelan could hold full conversations without Stiles ever once being overcome with old anger or bitterness or depression. He distinctly remembered the day that it hit him like a punch to the gut, the realization that he really was friends with this guy like there wasn’t anything weird about it at all or anything that should be holding him back, and what was even stranger was the calm, easy recognition of the fact that he didn’t care.

They were friends and that was ok.

He was _happy_.

It felt good to be around the wolf, just a sweet sort of lightness that had a warmth building up inside of him and pressing against the walls of his chest like a helium balloon. It all came on way too intense and way too fast but he wrote it off as the subtly bubbling attraction that occasionally sparked between them. The guy liked him, was attracted to him, had actually admitted it and that was something totally new to Stiles and it was nice. And ok, maybe Stiles had a little bit of a crush too but he wasn’t acting on it. He was actually pushing that part of it away hard, unwilling to ruin what had fallen so abruptly into his lap, because just making a friend was new and exciting for him.

It had been a long time since he’d had to work at a friendship, had to build one from scratch without the benefit of common acquaintances or shared tragedy.

Although the way this particular backpacking tour was going could definitely be considered a tragedy in Stiles’ book, werewolf or no. The majority of their group had voted to take the trails that would swing them around to see a series of natural waterfalls, completely bypassing the village that Stiles’ had originally wanted to see, the reason he’d signed up for this specific tour. His funding had started to run low at that point and he’d had to choose between this hike and a flight out to Egypt where he had a mummy waiting for him, sure thing (an actual mummy!) and he’d given it up for the chance to talk to the village elders about the rumors cropping up about a local band of rambling strigoi.

To say that he was pissed about missing out on it was an understatement. He’d done his damnedest to sway the popular vote to his side, whispered about the possibility of nights on makeshift pallets thicker than a sleeping bag, real baths, and food that didn’t have to be rehydrated before you could choke it down but to no avail. The call of the natural waterfalls had been too much for his fellow hikers, weak-willed creatures that they were.

Stiles wasn’t used to his powers of persuasion falling short and it had put him into a foul mood, muttering darkly to himself as the group trudged higher and higher into the mountains. Pheelan wasn’t helping, chuckling whenever he stumbled along the trail because his attention wasn’t anywhere near his feet and earning himself the heated glares Stiles’ cast in his direction every time he had to catch the young man by the elbow to keep him from face-planting. He’d voted against the waterfalls though so Stiles couldn’t stay mad, and the wolf was doing his best to distract him from his grumps. He’d started a game that he called _Either-Or_ , and by the time they reached their campsite for the next few days Stiles was grinning again, diving in with both feet and arguing heatedly for his answers.

It was an easy game, if painfully simple.

Socks or shoes?

Coke or Pepsi?

Rain or sun?

It was a little strange sometimes because as Stiles had discovered Pheelan was from Ireland, so there were cultural differences to contend with, but in the end he was surprised by just how much he was learning about the man. A silly game, a child’s game, with inconsequential questions that begot inconsequential answers, but by the time they had staked out their campsite late that morning he felt closer to the werewolf than he had felt anyone in a very long time.

The more lighthearted banter trailed off for a while as they worked to pitch their tents, side-by-side as they had done for some time now. The group had quickly congregated in the center of the site, their guide laying out an itinerary for the next few days. With an air of excitement they opted to forgo an afternoon of rest and instead decided to head directly out again, making the short trek north to the waterfalls. Still bitter, Stiles made his own decision to stay back, offering to build the fire pit and collect wood while the others were gone instead. He wasn’t surprised when Pheelan hung back too, lounging against his pack while watching Stiles dig a hole for the bonfire.

He’d offered to help but Stiles had shrugged him off, hoping the task would burn away the last of his negative energy. Turned out what the manual labor didn’t take care of listening to Pheelan did, the werewolf’s low, rumbly voice calm and soothing as he spoke about his work rehoming rare breeds of wolves. Real wolves that was. The reason _he_ was on this trip was to scout a new location for a recently mated pair that needed to be removed from its old pack, their alpha a threat to the pups the female was carrying. He spoke with passion, a real dedication to his responsibility, and something warm bubbled in Stiles’s belly when he heard the warmth with which Pheelan spoke about his charges.

Biting back a chuckle, Stiles shook his head, a smile curving one corner of his mouth.

The guy was a damn marshmallow.

The two bantered lightly back and forth as Stiles finished up the pit, lining it was stone and then stepping out of the clearing to gather kindling. Pheelan followed and much like the last time, Stiles felt the wolf’s eyes on him, following his movements, tracing the lines of his body as he crouched to pick up sticks. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, made his skin flush, and he was sure that he was throwing off a healthy dose of hot and bothered but neither of them said anything. He danced with the idea of flirting for just a second, of shaking his tail right under the wolf’s nose as they headed back in, but his fear of the consequences quickly killed the idea.

Dropping his armload of broken branches in a pile near the fire pit, Stiles swiped the back of his wrist over his forehead, shook off beads of sweat before dropping down onto Pheelan’s pack with a huff.

“Man I’m beat,” he sighed heavily, letting his head drop back against the roll of the wolf’s sleeping bag. He never made up his bed until the last minute, providing Stiles with a convenient cushion to flop over. He didn’t realize that he’d exposed the long curve of his throat to the wolf until he cracked an eyelid and found golden eyes staring back at him. Blushing furiously, he cleared his throat and push himself upright, propping his elbows on bent knees. “Exercise never was my idea of fun.”

“What’s a boy like you doin’ out here all alone anyway?” Pheelan asked, blinking away the shine in his eyes and dropping down to sit next to him, too close if he wasn’t just wedging himself in for his own backrest.

“Was that a pickup line?” Stiles asked, side-eyeing the wolf skeptically.

Pheelan gave him a half-smirk, shrugged nonchalantly.

It should have been uncomfortable but both of them ended up chuckling, the awkwardness evaporating like it had never been there. Stiles ended up getting lost in talking about his research, the stories he’d been collecting all across the continent. It was something he’d come to love and he could talk about it forever, and Pheelan’s warm, solid presence at his side, quiet and attentive, only encouraged him. He was in the middle of recounting his confrontation with a water nymph when his stomach rumbled, a loud, obnoxious break in the conversation.

Blushing when Pheelan laughed, Stiles rubbed the back of his neck shyly, pleased despite his embarrassment by the grin that splashed across the werewolf’s face, dark eyes glinting cheerfully.

“I’m starving!” he groaned, slumping down against the pack once again with an exaggerated flail.

“Jeff and Larissa took their poles,” Pheelan replied, referencing the token hippie couple of the group. “They’ll be bringing plenty back from the falls.”

“Mm, fish again,” Stiles grumbled sarcastically, twirling one finger in the air before dropping his arm bonelessly back to the ground. “I tell ya, that’s what I miss being out here. Real food.”

“That’s it?” Pheelan asked with surprise, cocking an eyebrow in his direction. “Not a shower, or dry socks, or your precious xBox?”

“Well, those too,” Stiles conceded, brushing away the memories associated with video games and creature comforts, all things he’d pretty much left behind along with his old life. “But mostly food. Lasagna. Curly fries. Chipotle! God, do I miss Chipotle.”

“Hm, well,” the werewolf rumbled above him, and Stiles felt the pack underneath his head jostle. “Not sure ‘bout any of that, but…”

Curiosity peaked, Stiles curled upright just in time to have a chocolate pudding pack pressed into his hand. His eyes went wide and his gaze quickly flashed back and forth between the plastic cup and the werewolf’s face, astounded.

“This… this is _pudding_ ,” he stated with astonishment. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and… _holy crap_ , you just gave me pudding!”

Pheelan laughed, a real laugh this time, loud and full and happy as a smile split his face and he threw his head back, the sunshine gleaming in his curly blonde hair, wide shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Never leave home without it,” he grinned, watching as Stiles peeled back the foil lid. “Mum says I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

“You don’t want any?” Stiles asked off-handedly, already dipping in a finger, foregoing the metal camp-spork altogether.

“Last one,” the werewolf shrugged, and Stiles froze with a glop of pudding halfway to his mouth.

“Wait, last…”

Popping his finger into his mouth before the guilt could stop him, Stiles frowned around the digit even as he worked it clean with his tongue, eyes narrowed at the wolf who was staring off into the trees.

Bumping him with his shoulder, he angled the cup towards him, wiggling it in his direction when he arched an eyebrow in question.

“Share?” he offered, and the blonde smiled, shaking his head.

“Nah.” He grinned, bumping him right back. “It’s all yours, little buddy.”

It was the very first time he’d called Stiles that, but with the taste of chocolate in his mouth he couldn’t say that he minded the nickname.


	3. Learn Me Something New

After the pudding things between Stiles and Pheelan were different. He’d given up on his resistance entirely - he found that the werewolf was just too good a guy to keep questioning his character or his motives. They finished out their guided tour side by side from that afternoon on, and when it finally came to an end at the base of the mountain, Stiles had been surprised to find himself highly reluctant to part ways with the cheerful young man.

To his delight however, Pheelan had casually remarked upon his plans to hike back to the bypassed village on his own, and made it clear that he wouldn’t mind a companion on the trip. By that time Stiles knew the werewolf to be an accomplished hiker and traveler, and had no misgivings about being left stranded in the wilderness on his own, so he was quick to leap at the chance. All along the way he told himself it was only for the opportunity to get his interview in with the village shaman, to fulfill the goal he’d originally set for the trip, but as each day passed and the two grew to know each other more and more, it was harder and harder, impossible even, to maintain the pretense.

He did get his interview, three of them in fact; one with the shaman and healer, one with the village chief, and one with a group of elders - all of whom had been remarkably willing to share their people’s history, culture, and mythology with him. Stiles had been surprised though Pheelan hadn’t appeared so, only looking at him with a strange sort of confusion on his face when Stiles had remarked on the ease with which he’d been welcomed, but the wolf had held his silence, only gone to his knees in the dirt to play a game of marbles with a group of children while Stiles was ushered away to a comfortable lodge and offered mulled wine and smoking pipes throughout the evening.

Indeed he seemed to be treated with a strange degree of reverence - what with the way he was catered to while in the village, constantly being offered water and fruits and roasted meat, thick pillows and shawls on which to sit. There was a distinctive lack of personal space between himself and the villagers as well, something he hadn’t yet experienced in all his travels. Typically he’d found that strangers were careful handling ‘Americans,’ but here he’d been welcomed with full-bodied hugs, his arms and shoulders constantly touched, his wrists held lightly. He enjoyed the experience immensely, laughed and smiled around the fire, learned all he could wish to about the stories flickering up and down the mountain, the rumor of the troubled souls of the dead haunting the hillsides.

He’d stayed three days in the village, and in all that time he saw little of Pheelan, but he always seemed to feel the wolf nearby. Occasionally he would pass between to huts and catch of glimpse of the man’s curly blonde hair, see his large figure being chased back and forth across the foot-worn paths or hear his booming laugh. It wasn’t difficult to say how he was entertaining himself as Stiles recorded his research - whenever he did cross paths with the werewolf, a wild, noisy group of village children were never far behind. They seemed to have taken quite a shine to his cheerful, sunny personality, never having to work too hard to cajole him into a game of tag or wheedling him out of some of the hard peppermint candies he carried.

It made Stiles smile, the sweetness to him, the pure, unselfish joy he appeared to take from play. That was something he didn’t feel like he’d had in a long time.

Play.

But his purpose there had been work, work that he was supremely satisfied with when it was over. He had filled a small notebook, cover to cover with a tight, neat script, detailed statistics and anecdotes, comments in the margins to remind him about the leaps and connections his brain had made all the while he’d carefully transcribed the legends and stories being told to him with all the seriousness and sincerity of scientific fact. He’d been a little reluctant to go when it was over, not only because it would mean parting ways with Pheelan but because in the three days he’d been in the village he’d come to love it just a bit, the people and the culture and the quiet, simple life led there that took nothing from the rich cultural tapestry it came from.

Pheelan had appeared at his side with frighteningly good timing when it was finally time to go, emerging from the home in which he’d apparently been staying fully packed. The family there seemed to be just as charmed by him as the children were, the man shaking his hand firmly, the woman pressing a kiss to his cheek as a little girl jumped around his knees. Kneeling down, he’d tilted his head to listen to something whispered in his ear that made the little girl blush shyly, but he’d laughed and given her a gentle hug before tucking one last peppermint into her hand and crossing to Stiles’ side.

He was offered gifts as he left as well - rich cloth, a package of tobacco, and a bracelet of hammered copper which he’d attempted to refused, but which had been clasped tightly around his wrist by the chief. His profuse thanks had been brushed off genially, and then it had been hugs and handshakes all around before they had finally been sent off by cheers and waves from half the village, waving all the way down the hill until they were out of sight.

There hadn’t been much talk after that, just comfortable silence as they hiked together back down the mountain and then off the trail towards the silly waterfalls that Stiles had been so spitefully against the first time round. They found the clearing, set up their tents, and it had been three days since with not much talk of going anywhere. It couldn’t be put off forever - Stiles could only live off of fish and trail mix for so long and he needed a few days of civilization to check in with his dad, shower, reboot.

But for a few days, for those three days…

It was nice.

It was talking, something that Stiles was good at, and it was talking to someone who actually listened to him, who showed an interest in what he had to say for reasons that didn’t include needing him to come up with a plan or do the life-saving research.

And it was listening too, being nosy and asking the awkward questions and being asked them in return, brushing them off with good-natured teasing and laughter. He learned more about Pheelan in those three days than he knew about a lot of his so-called pack, learned about his family and his favorite things and the worst thing he’d ever done. He learned that he was only three years older than Stiles, that he’d left his family at the age of seventeen when he’d realized that he was an omega and couldn’t shake the discomfort of living within the structure of his parent’s pack. Learned that he often stayed with his grandmother on whom he doted, and that he loved his human sister Shannon more than anyone else in the world.

And little by little he opened up as well, enough to expose all his soft, vulnerable parts, and maybe it helped that Pheelan was still essentially a stranger. Not so much anymore, just _kind-of_ a stranger, and a _kind-of_ stranger that Stiles thought he might very much like to be _not-a-stranger_.

However it happened, he felt close enough, safe enough to talk.

About Scott and the pack and about how they’d treated him. About that last argument that had finally driven him away. About having to choose between losing his friends and losing his mind, losing everyone in a desperate bid to find himself again. About how much he missed his dad, having lost him too in the process, and not lastly about his mom. Pheelan had been open and attentive but not overly-so, available without forcing his presence, and Stiles had appreciated that, pleased when he didn’t tried to touch him or make sympathetic sounds, or god-forbid apologize.

Still, he didn’t miss the way the wolf’s eyes flashed whenever the topic went to the Beacon Hills pack.

He’d snapped once, falling back into old ways in defense of his old friends, calling the werewolf on his silent judgement, but his response had shut him down cold. He would never forget those words.

_That’s not pack Stiles_.

And damn if that wasn’t like a baseball bat to the head. That this Omega, who’d admittedly left his own, would know more about pack than Der…

Well.

It hurt.

Because Stiles should have recognized it too, should have realized and _done_ something. Should have fixed it, should have made it better for all of them, and maybe he wouldn’t be here, maybe he could’ve salvaged…

Stiles was smacked hard out of that particularly bad line of thinking when a hand tightened around his wrist and hauled him sharply to his feet.

“Come on,” Pheelan rumbled, tugging him along. “Let’s go swimming.”

Stiles grinned, shrugged out of his hoodie and draped it over the stump he’d been sitting on. It was a good idea - he was bored and needed the distraction, the sun was hot and high and the waterfalls formed a clear, deep pool only minutes from camp - but as he kicked off his shoes and made to shuck his jeans, he realized that the idea might have another merit.

Pheelan had his back turned, had toed off his own hiking boots and was now stripping off his t-shirt, revealing broad shoulders and a strongly muscled back. Stiles froze, felt heat flood his belly at the sight and then his cheeks when the werewolf’s head snapped up and he visibly scented the air. Turning around with an eyebrow cocked, a grin threatening at the corners of his mouth, he was smugly silent as Stiles’ gaze moved automatically over his chest, massive biceps and strong pectorals, a light dusting of dark hair trailing down over well-defined abdominals and into his jeans.

Stiles snapped out of it when the other man’s hands went to his belt buckle, working it slowly and suggestively out of its loops. Electricity tickled down his arms and into his fingertips as he turned away, swallowing hard. He’d enjoyed the innuendo and the flirtation, but he was wary of going any further - it was too soon and he valued the growing friendship between them - probably more than he should.

But he liked this guy, and he couldn’t deny that there was some kind of spark between them.

Leaving his athletic shorts where they were - _on_ , thank you very much - Stiles reached down and tugged off his socks, taking a surreptitious runner’s start before taking off like a shot.

“Race you to the water!” he shouted back over his shoulder, too shy and giggly-nervous to look and see if Pheelan’s idea of swimming was skinny dipping.

It was nothing to run down to the falls, adrenaline pumping hard in his veins as the sounds of the werewolf crashing along behind him echoed in his ears even above the sound of the crashing water, and because of the way the rock had formed he reached it about hallway up the cliffs on the opposite side of the basin from the cascade, the pool lying clear and blue below him. He didn’t hesitate, not for a second, only threw himself forward with a raucous whoop and went barreling over the edge of the cliff into a cartwheeling free-fall, his heart in his throat until he was swallowed by the cool, deep water.

Breaking the surface with a gasp, Stiles splashed wildly as he pumped his fists, shouting his excitement to the world as he laughed and a grin split his face. Slipping into an easy stroke, he swam for the bank of the pool, hauling himself up onto a rocky shelf before turning back to the cliffs, his eyes searching for the man who’d chased him down.

No sign of him.

Stiles felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, caught his breath as he looked again.

_What the_ …

It was instinct that made him turn, too many years spent running for his life to ignore the feeling that started dripping down his spine.

Behind him, only yards away, stood a massive wolf, its shoulders level with his hips, its chest broad and its eyes a bright gold, staring at him from above heavy jaws, parted to show off sharp, white teeth.

Stiles shrieked like a banshee.

And then jumped so hard that he went toppling back off the bank, his arms pinwheeling wildly as he landed in the pool with a splash.

When he came back up again, choking, spluttering, and shaking the water from his eyes, it was to the sight of a very naked Pheelan holding his ribs, laughing his fool head off.

The wolf was gone.

To Stiles credit it only took him a few seconds to figure it out, but once he did it was with a stream of curses that were more awed than angry.

“Dude!” he cried, gesturing as widely as he could while keeping himself afloat. “Dude! You… that was… You can do the thing!”

The ass on the bank refused to pull himself together long enough to reply.

“I can’t believe you, you jerk!” he yelped, hesitant to swim any closer while the man was still, uh… man-shaped. “You never said you could do that - you scared the hell out of me!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Pheelan snickered in a way that said he wasn’t sorry at all. “But your face! And then you…”

“Oh shut up,” Stiles huffed, crossing his arms and then tipping violently in the water, throwing them out again to steady himself as he bobbed like a cork. “I’ve never seen that before - you can’t hold that against me.”

“Wait, you’ve _never_ seen it?” Pheelan asked, straightening up and finally catching his breath. “ _Ever_?”

“No,” he sniffed.

Pheelan quieted, his face smoothing out.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, but Stiles just brushed it off.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he replied, unable to hold back a smile now that he was well-past his fright. “I was just surprised is all. It’s… actually pretty awesome when I think about it. Like I said, I’ve just never seen _anything_ …”

Pheelan grinned, pride flashing over his face.

“Want to see it again?”


	4. Whisper to a Wolf

As incredible as it was to see Pheelan pull a full shift, it took a few weeks for Stiles to get comfortable around him when he was in his wolf form. As a man he was a large and powerful presence, but as an animal he was even more so - tall and strapped with muscle, with a deep chest and strong, white teeth gleaming between heavy jaws - but more than that there was something primal about him, something that sent a tingle rushing down Stiles’ spine and made some small, dark, cold thing at the back of his brain whisper a warning.

_Danger_.

_Predator_.

And of course now that the secret was out the jerk took great delight in spooking him, sneaking up behind him when he didn’t expect it, dropping his pants, and going full fur-ball. Instinct was a wrecking-ball in that instant, crashing into his chest and driving the air from his lungs as he turned to find a massive, golden wolf staring at him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Everything in him screamed to run, over riding the logic that running would only make him more attractive prey, and still Stiles found that in the moment his muscles locked with fear even as his heart lunged beneath his ribs. But then Pheelan would bark a laugh and start frisking around him, nipping at his ankles and yipping like a puppy until Stiles started laughing too, letting himself be bowled over for a wolfy wrestling match.

And so slowly he became more and more comfortable with the contact, became so used to the wolf’s presence that he no longer jumped at his appearance, and even came to appreciate the animal side of Phee in its own right. They’d moved on from the mountain range where they’d met and Stiles had been easily persuaded to follow Pheelan half a country over to the next - he had a good month’s break before he was due at his next rendezvous with a reported vampire hunter, and the other man hadn’t been satisfied with previous site as a home for his beloved wolves. They’d restocked in a brief lay-over in the city before heading back up into the mountains, but their supplies had waned quickly, and as a wolf Phee did an excellent job providing rabbits and other small game to supplement their campfire-cooked meals.

More importantly, the werewolf soothed something inside of Stiles that he hadn’t known ached, something that went far beyond having made a new friend in the vast emptiness of the wilderness and the isolation of having left everyone he loved continents away. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t explain it, but in the very short time he’d known Pheelan he’d come to trust and care for him far more than he would have expected to. He felt as if he’d known the Irishman for years, felt closer to him than he’d felt to anyone in the last two years and even longer, since well before he’d left Beacon Hills.

He was a cheerful presence, whatever shape he took, and it was an attitude that rubbed off, that made it harder and harder for Stiles to hold anything back as the months passed. In the face of Pheelan’s sunny smiles he had little chance, and so he began to open up more and more each day, talking, laughing, sharing pieces of himself he hadn’t dared consider for a long time.

“I knew Derek’s sister could do it,” he said once, referring to the fully-evolved switch that turned man to animal. “But you’re the first one I’ve actually _seen_ do it.”

“You talk about him a lot you know?” Pheelan hummed quietly, focused on striking flint and steel together in an attempt to pull fire from the sparks. “More than the others.”

Stiles froze in place, his arms full of sticks that he’d been carrying toward the fire pit that Pheelan was working over.

He hadn’t known, hadn’t even realized that he’d talked so much about the pack in those passing weeks they’d been together that Phee could draw such a conclusion, make such a statement. The absence of the paralyzing anger, pain, and regret that normally gripped him at the mention of the family he’d been driven from should’ve been a relief, but the recognition of it all at once felt like a knife in Stiles’ side, and all those volatile emotions came flaring to life again, hot and bracing.

He didn’t want to accept.

He didn’t want to forgive.

Stiles jumped at the sound of an axe being driven deep into a log, blinked back to reality to find Pheelan frowning at him, having abandoned his attempts at fire-starting and taken a step forward. He swallowed hard and fought his instincts to back away as the werewolf stepped into his space, reached out to curl one big hand around his jaw and lift his face in order to better meet his gaze. His thumb stroked Stiles’ cheek once before he sighed, concern in his dark eyes, and then he let him go, stepped back and started to strip.

Something hot squirmed in Stiles’ belly whenever he did that, the wolf’s first declaration of attraction ringing in his ears, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that he always enjoyed the view of Phee’s chest, broad muscled shoulders, and strong, perfect torso. And still every time, no matter how much he told himself he wanted a good look, he always yelped and slapped a hand over his eyes when the wolf’s hands went to his belt buckle.

“Dude!” he yelped, hopping blindly on one foot as the load of wood fell from his arms, raining down on his toes, “We talked about this!”

The only response his got was a breathy, huffing sort of snort, and when he opened his eyes again he found Pheelan sitting at his feet, jaws parted and tongue lolling as he looked Stiles up and down.

“Oh shut up,” he muttered. “Forgive my virgin sensibilities.”

The wolf visibly perked up at this statement and Stiles’ felt his cheeks go flaming hot as Phee cocked his head interestedly, ears swiveling. See, this was exactly what he was talking about. This guy was way too easy to talk to, which meant Stiles’ big mouth was off and running, saying things he’d never dream of saying to the man’s face.

But the wolf seemed to be smiling at him encouragingly, and so he brushed it off, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans and stepping carefully out of the pile of sharp sticks built up around his boots. Bending down to collect the mess, he reached for a long, thick stick at the very top of the pile and was startled when the wolf pounced, grabbed the other end in his jaws and pulled hard.

“Hey!” Stiles scolded, resetting his feet so that he didn’t go tumbling. “Gimme!”

Snarling playfully and with a wicked gleam in his eye, Pheelan shook his head violently, practically pulling Stiles’ arm from its socket.

“Ow!” he grumbled, giving the stick a good pull in retaliation, only to have Pheelan pull it back. “What? You… you wanna play?”

Finally releasing his hold on the prize, Pheelan made a short buffing sound and danced away a few paces, looking off into the trees and back again.

Like he was waiting for something.

Raising an eyebrow in uncertainty, Stiles lifted the stick to shoulder height, waited for confirmation in the form of another sharp bark, and then, shrugging, pitched the stick away into the trees. Pheelan was off like a shot after it, and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh a little when the wolf came trotting back with his prize clamped firmly in his teeth, a ridiculous look of pride on his face. Dropping it at his feet, he poked him repeatedly in the thigh with a cold, damp nose, slurped a long, slobbery lick from his wrist to his elbow as he jumped around Stiles knees.

“All right, all right, you big goof,” he laughed, pushing the wolf off and bending over to pick up the stick. “You wanna play fetch, let’s play.”

**XXX**

Later that night they sat in front of a crackling fire, Phee’s huge form curled around Stiles’ body as he leaned back against the wolf’s shoulder, his fingers buried in his thick, blonde fur as he stroked the wolf’s silky ears. The sky above them was a deep, deep indigo, and as clear as Stiles had ever seen, thousands of stars shining down at them like chips of diamond in the dark. The night was cool, a light breeze buffeting their tents along the edge of camp, but with the fire at his feet and the wolf at his back, he was snug and comfortable, a peaceful sort of worn out and sleepy.

“I think I loved him, you know,” he said quietly, and except for the flick of an ear, the wolf beside him didn’t move. “Or… wanted to. I don’t know; I think it’s just that, for a while, we really had a chance at something. Like, I liked him and he liked me back and we could’ve… _been_.”

Sighing, Stiles shifted lower and slung his arm over Pheelan’s shoulders, half a semblance of a hug all he could manage.

“Maybe that’s all it was,” he murmured.

For a few moments he stared into the heat of the fire, until he couldn’t take it anymore and he turned his gaze up to the chill of the night sky, ignoring the tears that threatened to roll at any moment.

It was only the flame after all, only that bright orange light that brought them on.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last, loudly, brusquely, and beside him the wolf whined a long, high-pitched note that might’ve been anything. “He didn’t want me, none of them did. So he pushed me out the door, pushed me out of the pack… It wasn’t all his fault, and I was losing them before that, but… it hurt you, know?”

Stiles scoffed a pained, sobbing sort of laugh and Pheelan shifted closer, turning to lay his heavy muzzle in Stiles lap. Curling his fingers into Phee’s ruff, Stiles swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, grateful that he stayed this way, silent, close, when he could’ve easily shifted back and away, went for clothes and started speaking all those small consolations and reassurances that Stiles hated and had told himself a hundred times. 

“I can’t even,” he choked, “I can’t even make the words to explain how much… And words are my _thing_. They’re what I _do_ , and I can’t…”

Hiccoughing, choking on the words, Stiles leaned forward and grabbed the wolf around the neck, puled him close and held on tight as he wept into the man’s fur, warm and silky and smelling of smoke and pine needles and the chill of winter snow.

There was no telling how long they stayed like that, wrapped tight together as Stiles broke to pieces, but by the time he was able to lift his head again the fire had died down to coals, banked low and crackling quietly as the true darkness of a mountain night descended. Sniffling, only a little embarrassed, Stiles sat back and scrubbed his face with his sleeve feeling better than he had in a very long time. Lifting his own head, Pheelan looked him over with silent concern before reaching forward slowly to give him a light, gentle lick on the cheek. Chuckling, Stiles gave him a pat on the head and extracted himself, climbing stiffly to his feet.

“I’m going to bed dude,” he said in the quiet. “You wore me out today.” 

Pheelan huffed through his nose, a sound Stiles took as offense, but it seemed playful enough so Stiles cast him half a grin in reply and headed for his tent, crawling inside and collapsing onto the thickly padded sleeping bag he’d paid an arm and a leg for. Heaving a massive sigh, letting his eyes drift shut as exhaustion swept over him, he jerked with a start when another high pitched whine sounded at the partially open door of the tent.

Lifting his head, Stiles found Pheelan sitting there with an odd hesitancy on his face, his eyes glowing golden in the dark. But Stiles found that he didn’t want to be alone either, so he dropped his head, turned onto his side and lifted his arm in invitation.

“C’mere Butterwolf,” he murmured under his breath, his brain already warm and fuzzy with the haze of sleep, so much so that he hardly registered the wolf creeping into the tent, sneaking up to press himself full-length to Stiles’ front within the circle of his arms. “Sweet dreaming, dude.”


	5. First Times

That was the first time that Stiles and Pheelan shared a tent. The first time they fell asleep together. As hard as it was for him to sleep at all on any given night, it didn’t take long, wasn’t nearly as awkward as he felt it should have been when he thought about it later. And maybe that was because Pheelan had been in his true form, or maybe it was because Stiles had been emotionally exhausted, but almost as soon as the wolf had crept up beneath his arm and snuggled in tight against his chest, the warmth and compact solidity of his body, the clean, fluffy silk of his fur lulled Stiles down into unconsciousness as easily as breathing. It was the instinctive safety of a child clinging to its teddy bear, accompanied by a full-bodied relief greater than any he had ever felt before, and if he hadn’t been completely wrung out already he might’ve drifted off with tears on his face.

When he woke up the next morning it took him a full three minutes to realize that there were human arms around him. For never having woken up in that position before, he was surprisingly calm and comfortable, snuggling back into the hold of the man behind him, pressed flush back to front, huge, muscled biceps banded across his ribs keeping him tucked in close. Those first few minutes Stiles had just breathed, enjoyed the warmth and the security blanketing him before his brain came fully online and he went stock still, rigid atop his thin sleeping mat. Fear had no part of it - he knew it was Phee, though he didn’t know how he knew - but shock, surprise, awkward discomfort eventually set him to squirming in an attempt to wriggle away.

Which produced the opposite of the desired effect, because instead of releasing him Pheelan hummed, stretched, and tightening his grip, snuffling breathily at the back of Stiles’ neck.

“Don’t get up yet,” he murmured sleepily, and Stiles froze when the wolf pressed his face into the curve of his neck and rubbed slowly and firmly, his morning 5 o’clock rough and ticklish on his sensitive skin. “Ten more minutes.”

Heart in his throat, Stiles swallowed a whimper.

He knew what that was, knew what it meant, but it was the first time Phee had ever done it.

Hell it was the first time any wolf had done it.

The flush of belonging that rippled over him was incredible and yet at the same time almost suffocating, almost _frightening_ , so instead of settling back in like half of him wanted to, he caved to the other and wrapped his fingers around Phee’s forearm, squeezed firmly.

“Gotta pee,” he said quietly, staring straight ahead at the weathered fabric of the tent, willing his heart not to skip. “Come on big guy, legg’o my eggo.”

Phee’s mouth curved in a grin against the back of his neck and then he was huffing a chuckle, releasing his grip and rolling slowly onto his back with a huge yawn, spreading out over the mat as Stiles leapt to his feet and rolling around in what he assumed must be a soup of their shared scents. It sent a pang through his chest to see the wolf sleeping so quietly in his sheets, like a gong being struck inside his ribs, and then he was scrambling headlong through the door of the tent to freedom.

Outside the air hit him cool and crisp and was like a flash-flood crashing through him the way it blasted away the tiny seeds of panic that had caught. Sucking in huge lungfuls of clean mountain air, Stiles felt something in him ease, calm, and as he walked to the edge of camp to water the trees, he was suddenly fighting a smile, his emotions fluid and unstable, but with contentment abruptly at the fore. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to someone, anyone, and it felt good and right and perfect in ways he couldn’t explain, even if his jaded fears whispered that he shouldn’t let someone so close, especially a wolf.

The closer you let them get, the more you cared, the easier it was for them to hurt you.

But Pheelan was...

He just didn’t seem the type.

Of course, Scott hadn’t either.

Aw hell, shake it off, think of something else…

Like maybe the fact that you just had your first grown up sleepover ever.

Though he wasn’t sure it counted.

Walking back toward the fire pit, Stiles dropped down onto his butt and leaned against the log Phee’d dragged in for a bench, his back to his tent as he stared out at the trees.

The night _had_ started off with him snuggled up to a wolf, not a man, and there hadn’t been any sexy times. Oddly enough, when he’d woken up, Phee’d been wearing a pair of boxer-briefs and the fact that they’d actually fit said they were his own, not a pair he’d commandeered from Stiles’ bag. Which meant that at some point in the middle of the night he’d shifted, gone to his own tent for the shorts, and come back again.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Combined with the snuggles and scenting he’d gotten this morning from a man fully shifted and conscious of the fact that he was doing it, Stiles wasn’t sure where that left him.

He was still wary, still hurt at heart, still mistrusting, and yet despite it all he wanted. The thing in him, warm and bright, hadn’t gone entirely, had only curled up tight and small in his chest, hiding itself away where it would be safe, and now, for the first time in years, it was being called out, encouraged, cajoled.

Whatever it was, it wanted to play.

And that was kind of a problem, because he had no idea how to let the thing off its leash.

But then there was a rustling behind him and a deep, chuffing yawn, and then Pheelan was passing behind him on his way to his own tent for his clothes and as he passed he reached out and rubbed a rough, warm palm around the back of Stiles’ neck and over the curve of his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world to do, and after that, it was.

**XXX**

They continued to stick together after that, without negotiation or mention of a separation, moving together easily from location to location as Pheelan worked to place his wolves and Stiles collected the myths and stories of worlds that civilization had practically forgotten. Time passed, weeks went by, and the two got slowly closer, the wolf always happy to push Stiles to expand his boundaries, respectful enough not to ever cross them. The scenting became an everyday occurrence, whether it was a casual touch in passing or a deliberate act, Phee burying his face in Stiles’ throat and rubbing like a cat.

They didn’t always sleep together, didn’t always share a tent. Stiles still pitched his own every time they moved camp, sometimes even stayed in it, but for the most part they started cohabitating. Platonic, just good friends, one of whom happened to be a werewolf whose concepts of touch and personal space were, by nature, a little looser than humans’ were.

And as for Stiles, it got easier.

Every day that Phee stuck around, every day that he learned a little bit more about the man, he felt closer to him, safer with him.

There was still a little awkwardness to it, couldn’t be helped, what with the way the guy looked.

He was hot, ok? Stiles was man enough to admit it. And the wolf had already admitted that for some ungodly reason he was attracted to Stiles’ pale, scrawny ass.

Neither one acted on it though.

Phee wasn’t going to push it, and despite those few awkward mornings when the two woke up with mutual wood, Stiles just didn’t know how to make the first move.

So the first time they kissed, when it finally happened, was a surprise to both of them.

It was raining, a torrential downpour in fact. They were both sitting on Phee’s bedroll, elbows on their knees, watching the lightning flash through the door out over the mountains while the wind buffeted the sides of the tent and things were all muffled with the quiet, static hush of the thunder higher up. Stiles had meant to call his father that night, but even with his high-powered cellular upgrade and the satellite antenna he’d managed to rig, there was no getting through the storm.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He and his dad had a plan in place in the event that Stiles didn’t contact him when he was supposed to. The Sheriff wasn’t allowed to panic or send in the cavalry until a full week had followed, so for now he was safe from the possibility of having a SWAT team come swarming down on him. It was just… he always felt bad when he couldn’t talk to his dad. He was really the only person _in_ Stiles’ life except for Pheelan.

Maybe he was just in a funk.

He always got that way when he started thinking about the pack. The past.

“I just feel like I lost everyone, you know?” he mumbled, his chin propped on his   
forearms. “Even Lydia, even my dad…”

Beside him, Pheelan was silent, still, but Stiles knew he was listening, closely attentive as always. It was the subject that quieted the wolf, it always was, though Stiles was never sure exactly what about it upset him. He rarely spoke when Stiles talked about the pack, only rumbled deep in his chest on occasion, a sound that Stiles had never really learned to interpret.

“I guess I just wasn’t worth it.”

And crap.

Ok.

That sound he knew.

That was a pissed off werewolf.

Next thing he knew Phee had jerked him around, knelt facing him with two big, warm hands cupping his jaw and was staring at him with a golden gaze more intense than any he’d ever had leveled at him before.

“You,” he breathed, spare inches between their lips, “Are one of the brightest souls that I have ever met, Stiles Stilinski. You fucking _shine_ little buddy.”

He didn’t know which one of them closed the distance.

He didn’t think it mattered.

The wolf led and it was tender and sweet more perfect than Stiles could have asked for, and as the thunder clashed overhead everything began to unravel around him, the world fading away to nothing more than a dull rumble and the heat of Pheelan’s hands on his body.

It should have been too fast.

Should have made him pull away, should have made him clutch desperately for the brakes.

But maybe it made sense.

They’d been circling this for a long time, and it felt… good. Right. It felt like comfort   
and warmth and… _home_ somehow.

And he didn’t know what that meant out here, in the middle of some god-forsaken mountain range in the middle of a thunderstorm but he wanted it, needed it. To feel like he belonged somewhere, like he meant something to someone who didn’t _have_ to like him because they’d raised him or known him since toddlerhood or because he’d saved their life. And if he could find that for just a moment in this man’s arms, this sweet, strong, god-damned perfect guy’s arms, then to hell with any of the consequences.

He didn’t know why he had ever thought that it might be hard and fast and rough, all teeth and force and no finesse. Yes, Pheelan was a werewolf, but that was where all of those things stopped. He was sugar and butter and gentleness, happy-go-lucky as hell. Stiles wasn’t sure the guy had a bark or a bite in his whole body, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when that kiss, and everything that followed, that moment inside of time was more soft and flawless and unspoiled as any he’d ever had. They moved against each other like they were two halves of a whole, pieces meant to fit, shared breath and heartbeats as the wolf kept his face pressed into the curve of Stiles’ neck, lips feverish against his throat, and all Stiles could do was bury his hands in the wolf’s curls and pull him even closer.

**XXX**

To say that his first time was perfect was… quite the understatement in Stiles’ mind.

So naturally, being who he was, the morning after had to suck.

When Stiles finally woke up the next morning he felt better than he’d ever felt in his life, loose and calm and without the heavy tightness in his chest that had plagued him for years. He felt like something in him had healed overnight, quieted, and as he shifted and murmured, found himself plastered across Pheelan’s naked chest with the wolf’s arms looped around his waist, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

Above him he felt Pheelan start to stir, let him go to stretch out his arms and yawn widely. Pulling himself closer, Stiles tucked his head beneath the wolf’s chin, blatantly returning the scent marking from last night and blinking sleepily, contentedly awake.

And then shot upright with a shriek worthy of a banshee when he realized that he was lit up like Maglite.

“What did you do to me?” he shouted in utter panic, scrambling up onto his knees and dragging his hands over his arms and his chest like he was trying to shuck water. His heart was thundering in his chest and he felt the anxiety catching at his breath and he was _scared_ , but then Phee was sitting up and grabbing his arms and petting him, stroking the side of his face and down his neck and it should have broken him, but instead of inciting the anxiety attack the way it would have before it immediately calmed him, cooled the heat of _helpmehelpmeohgod_ threatening to choke him.

“Easy,” the wolf hummed, his hands gentling as Stiles stopped trying to claw off his own skin. “I didn’t do anything Stiles. Well I _did_ , but it’s… _you_.”

“What the hell do you mean, it’s _me_?” Stiles yelped. “This has never happened before - I don’t _glow!_ ”

“I knew you were something,” Pheelan murmured, both distracted and entranced, ignoring his denial and leaning in close to stare at Stiles with nothing but sheer awe in his voice. “Knew you were special.”

“I’m not special, I’m _glowing_!” Stiles whimpered. “Pheelan what’s happening to me?”

“You must be manifesting,” he answered, taking Stiles’ wrist in his hand and pulling him forward, breathing in deeply over his pulse point and running his nose up Stiles’ forearm. “Should’ve known. Should’ve felt it.”

“Felt what?” Stiles demanded, his hands shaking minutely. “Pheelan…”

“Perfect,” Phee murmured to himself against Stiles’ skin, his eyes closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “You were already perfect, but hell, _Stiles_ …”

“Focus, Butterwolf,” Stiles begged, “Please. I’m kinda freaking out here.”

“Stiles,” Pheelan murmured, pulling back and raising his head, looking for all the world like he was high. “You’re a Touchstone.”


	6. Going Home

It was time to go home.

He could feel it, a gentle weight settled against his bones, an itch on the back of his neck as the moon grew full and round in the night sky overhead. Omega though he was, he still felt the pull of pack sometimes, the urge to shift and run together, shoulders bumping in a hot, frenetic crush of bodies as they romped and hunted and sang together. It caught at the back of his throat like a high-pitched whine, a pained whimper that snuck up on him every once in a while when he wasn’t expecting it.

It helped having Stiles with him. He hadn’t expected that friendship to grow so large and so quickly, not that first day or any day after that. He’d been so angry when they first met, so closed off and suspicious... Pheelan had wondered if maybe the kid didn’t just recognize what he was, fear the wolf that hid beneath his skin, and so he’d tried to introduce himself, choked with a strange need to ingratiate himself to the stranger.

It hadn’t worked - the guy had ended up cutting himself and snapping at him, and then for days did his best to avoid him. It had gone against the grain to give him space, which was odd because Pheelan was a patient man and had never forced his presence on anyone before, but still he found himself wandering aimlessly after the young man, like a puppy whose attention had been caught by the tangential flight of a butterfly.

It probably wasn’t a mark in his favor that when Stiles had finally confronted him Phee couldn’t articulate what he felt to save his life. He’d said something stupid about the guy being attractive before he could think about the words and then scrambled to correct himself when Stiles had flailed with a confused, disbelieving yelp. His efforts had gone unappreciated and he was told to stay away, but things had still changed.

Or Stiles did at least.

Time passed, and he wasn’t so bitter or wrapped up in the ache of whatever it was that he was running from. They talked and they played games and they told each other things about themselves that didn’t really matter and they became friends. They sealed it with a chocolate pudding pack, and then did it again when Pheelan showed him his true form, and from there it just kept on going, to the point where Stiles trusted him enough to tell him about his past, the home he’d left and the pack who’d driven him away, and then things had made more sense but they weren’t any less hurtful.

He hadn’t planned it to go the way it had.

When he’d woken up naked beneath Stiles’ arm that first time they’d shared a bed roll a part of him had known he should just leave. He did too, got all the way back to his own tent and into a pair of shorts before the sleepy, half-animal instincts still fogging up his brain had driven him back again, nosing his way into the boy’s embrace and snuggling in close. Waking up the second time a few hours later might’ve been worse, because that was the first time that he scented Stiles, rubbing his face sleepily into the warm, musky curve of his throat and it felt good and right and as much like pack as anyone ever felt.

He hadn’t asked and they hadn’t ever talked about it, but Stiles hadn’t slapped him so he guessed it must be a little bit ok. When the other man’s body heat had finally evaporated from the sheets and Pheelan forced himself to his feet, he’d acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to have done, and so he went and did it again, curling his palm around Stiles’ throat as he passed on the way for his clothes. After that it was just habit, one that sent heat rolling through the pit of his belly whenever Stiles reciprocated.

Then they’d slept together.

It wasn’t like he’d never had sex before. He wasn’t a slut by any means, but he wasn’t exactly a virgin either. And yet somehow, with Stiles, he’d felt like he was. And maybe that was stupid and cliché, but he’d felt like he was learning his own body all over again with Stiles and like he was proving something to himself just as much as he was proving Stiles’ worth to him. It had been sweet and slow and exploratory like he’d never had before, and something had pulled so hard in his chest that for a moment he’d wondered if Stiles wasn’t going to be the end of him.

And then they’d woken up in the morning and everything had made sense.

A Touchstone. An honest to god _Touchstone_. He’d only ever heard legends about them, read the stories in the family bestiary. His móraí, his grandmother, had talked about them before, but in the way that she talked about any beautiful thing she’d seen in childhood that she thought she’d never see again.

Which he could understand, because waking up to that soft, warm, gentle glow, to Stiles curled up against his chest and rubbing his face vigorously against Pheelan’s throat…

Well that might’ve been the closest to love that he’d ever felt before.

Stiles had panicked of course, which had kind of ruined the moment, and it got even worse after that because the man had an insecure streak a mile wide that had driven a good, solid wedge between them. For a week he’d demanded space, wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t look at him, sending Pheelan into a depressed and disappointed funk until neither of them could take it anymore and they’d crashed together again in a tangle of limbs, kisses just as frantic as the apologies they’d squeezed between them.

He hadn’t been sure at the time if Stiles had believed him when he insisted that the glow wasn’t what mattered to him, but he’d done his best to reassure him of that particular truth. Still he couldn’t be sure, and that worry had plagued him until he’d announced his intentions of heading back to Ireland fifteen days later.

It was time to go home.

At first Stiles had gone still and silent, something Pheelan couldn’t read scribbled all over his face, but then he’d stashed it away, grinned and shrugged, told him that sure, of course he should go. It made sense for him to miss his family, and he’d been out here too long anyway. Look at him for heaven’s sake; with the scruffy man-bun and what was quickly becoming a lumberjack beard due to their inconsistent supply of razors, he was starting to look like one of those crazy survivalists that disappeared into the mountains and was never heard from again.

The sudden avalanche of babble had confused him, and Stiles’ painful blush and hasty retreat into his own tent quickly after hadn’t helped to clear things up.

When things finally clicked two days later, after being on the receiving end of increasingly cold treatment and getting glared at every time he packed something up or talked about travel arrangements, after Stiles’ scent became more and more bitter with the charcoal wisps of pained sadness, he refused to blame himself for not getting it. It was a natural assumption for him to make, so little question to it that no one could fault him.

“You’re coming too,” he’d said, and maybe the lingering confusion in his voice did have it coming across as more of a question than a statement, because somehow Stiles hadn’t known what Pheelan did - that at this point he was as welcome in Pheelan’s house or pack or family as any wolf with whom he shared bite or blood.

He’d frozen again, stared, surprised and dumbfounded, like he’d really had no idea, and Pheelan couldn’t do anything else but tip his head and wonder with a sudden sense of dread if he’d misunderstood, miscalculated what was between them. But then Stiles’ face practically split in a grin worthy of the sun and he was crashing into Pheelan in what would have been a tackle if the wolf was any smaller, practically bursting at the seams with a bright, happy glow that felt like heaven.

The next day they’d hiked down out of the hills and there had been a 4x4 waiting to drive them to the nearest air strip, where Pheelan had arranged by radio for a plane to fly them out. Stiles had been asking questions a hundred miles a minute since they’d started out, and Phee had done his best to answer them, telling him about the pack and his home, about staying with his grandmother in a cottage one town over from the pack. He told Stiles too about his mother, the Alpha, his father and his little sister Shannon, about how they all still got together on the full moon even though he was an Omega. Told him about how a wolf pack should be, even though it put something a little bit like melancholy pain on the younger man’s face.

But something in him wanted Stiles to know. Wanted him to know what it really meant to be part of a wolf pack, what it really meant to have that connection.

And more than that, he wanted to _show_ him.

It was more than just Stiles being a Touchstone, more than just knowing that the boy’s very nature demanded a relationship with the wolves, a place in the pack.

Something in him wanted it to be _his_ pack, _his_ family, _him_.

But he knew to that a part of Stiles was still hurting, still cautious, and not near ready for that.

So he had taken them straight to his grandmother’s house, and she greeted them both with tea and open arms, and seeing Stiles wobble just a bit under such a warm and honest welcome was enough.

****

XXX

Stiles couldn’t put towards the feeling of relief he experienced when Pheelan invited him back to Ireland. It was powerful, overwhelming, stronger than anything he’d felt in a very long time. The fear that had come before was all-consuming, had eaten away at him for days ever since the wolf had announced his intentions to go back home. From the very beginning it had always been Stiles’ intention to travel solo, but after spending over a year in close companionship with the werewolf, the thought of their time together coming to an end had ripped at his chest like knives.

It went far beyond the simple fear of being abandoned when he’d only just realized what he was, only just discovered such a large part of his identity. With so much of his potential still unknown, his power still untapped, he was curious but wary about going on without fully understanding what the wolf had brought out of him. And yet surprisingly that had been the least of his concerns, the least of his resentment.

No, it had been hurt feelings that made him glare at Pheelan, made him sneer at the man’s bags and petulantly refuse to talk to him for hours on end. He never suspected the werewolf of maliciousness, but indifference had been another matter entirely. With his history who could blame him for suspecting that he simply didn’t matter to the other man, that he had read too much into the relationship between them and was about to be disappointed by reality once again?

Who could blame him, when his heart almost broke with the thought that it had just been casual friendship, and even more casual sex?

That thought came and went in a wash of guilt for having had it at all - for as many hang-ups as Stiles had, Pheelan was nothing like that. Sure, he had his moments too, when he could be obnoxious or total ass, but at the core of it he was a sweet guy who for whatever reason seemed to take a very strong liking to Stiles. He’d been excited to meet the man’s family, the pack that had raised such an incredible soul, even if he was a little nervous, a little bit achy with memories.

Being greeted at the door by a little old lady with silver hair and dark, twinkling eyes, was nothing like he had expected it to be.

Pheelan’s grandmother was short, much shorter than Stiles, and stout in a sweet, grandmotherly way. She was wrapped in shawls and knitted cardigans, and had taken his hand and kiss his cheeks just the way she did with her grandson, no difference between a stranger and blooded family. Ushering them into a cozy, well lit parlor, she’d set them down and started a pot of water to boiling over the little fireplace, fussing over them as she shuffled back and forth from the kitchen, fetching cups and milk and sugar, and a little tray of biscuits that were a long-held family recipe, if Pheelan’s voracious appetite for them was anything to go by.

While she bustled and tittered about she demanded stories from each of them in turn, turning to Stiles for answers when her grandson’s mouth was preoccupied with the tea and treats she plied them with. Eventually she settled into a well-stuffed little armchair, her legs so short that her slippered feet dangled a good foot above the ground. The small black cat that had been winding itself around Pheelan’s ankles leapt into her lap, curling up for a cozy nap, and she seem to do much the same, easing back against the cushions and listening contentedly to the grandson she clearly doted on.

At least until he mentioned his suspicion that Stiles was a Touchstone.

As soon as the word left his mouth she’s sat up in her chair like a livewire had run through the bottom of it, her sweet face suddenly sharp and alert. Stiles gulped when she looked at him with all the scrutiny of a wolf watching its prey, and then she was shooing the cat off her lap and Pheelan out of the house.

“Go on,” she said, flicking her hands at him, and Pheelan had cast Stiles a sheepish sort of grin as he was pushed out the door by the tiny little lady who only came up to his waist. “Go. Take Seamus for a run about the barn - your young man will be just fine until you get back.”

Ignoring Stiles’ frantic headshaking, Pheelan had whistled shrilly and the little black cat had gone bounding off through the doorway with him, leaving Stiles alone in the parlor with his grandmother. She looked him shrewdly up and down before sitting across from him at the table, taking his empty teacup from its saucer and swirling it three times counterclockwise before peering into the bottom. Minutes ticked by and Stiles could feel his heart in his throat, until she made a hmph-ing sort of sound that he could only hope was approving and set the cup aside.

His fingers were ice cold when she asked for his hand.

“Phee says I’m a Touchstone,” he said hesitantly after a while, and just a little shakily as she traced the lines of his palm with short, clean nails.

“And so you are and so things go,” she nodded, intent on the lines between his fingers. Whatever she saw there must have pleased her, because she smiled at him and patted the back of his hand before returning it, setting about pouring him another cup of tea. “You have the spark in you little one, the glow. Even if love and losing have been black shadows on your heart. Your light is strong; the spark will see you through it.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he confessed.

“Few of us are born already knowing the things that we truly need to know in this world,” she said, getting to her feet and walking over to the door. “I will teach you what I can.” Opening the door, she revealed Pheelan standing on the other side of it, leaning against the jamb with his hands in his pockets and a soft, contented smile on his face. “The rest you must learn from wolves.”


End file.
